Because he couldn’t move without her.
43
Hiroshima – the Suicide Club squat –
Kabe-cho – Mitsuko – March 14th 1995
Reizo is gone. Looking for drugs as usual, Yori said. As usual. Her words are simmering with both anger and sadness. The others have also scattered. My scuffle with Reizo appears to have worked as a catalyst. The group is falling apart completely. Or maybe I’m imagining things and they’re just hungry, went out for a bite to eat. These people hate society, but they still believe in the law of the jungle and the profit principle. They think they’re different, but they’re not. From the moment I arrived here I made sure anything I had of any value was well hidden. If they find out what I have they’ll steal it. But in spite my suspicions, I just broke my own rule. I told Yori much more than I should have. I hope she doesn’t betray my confidence. After the confrontation with Reizo I ran outside to the parking lot in front of the Suicide Club and tried to regain my self-control. I was finding it hard to breath. A sense of sickening abnormality took shape in my mind, filling me with both panic and desire. The clawing heaviness of my bizarre life had me by the throat. The thirst for blood I had felt during the fight with Reizo made it hard for me to think straight. I had to face the facts: I couldn’t avoid reality, but I didn’t know how to divide it up into neat digestible portions. Most of us live our lives with our eyes downcast, bound hand and food to established rituals. A tough layer of surface skin protects people from life’s more toxic influences, but I don’t have such protection. My nerves are exposed like foam on a restless sea.
I felt as if I was standing on the edge of a precipice. A single thought anchored in my head: why did I write things in my diary as a child that I later didn’t understand, as if they were written in a different language? The thought concealed a threat that seemed ready to devour me at any moment. Yori’s gentle touch and the way she looked at me made that feeling ebb away. “Let’s go,” she said.
And what did I do? I followed her like a giant pug into a smaller room next to the common area, the place where she and Reizo normally spent the night. She pulled me onto a futon surrounded by fluffy toys with big ears and baby eyes, the stuff she made to sell on the street. I surrendered. She threw her arms and legs around my huge ungainly body and held me tight as she caressed my hair. I floated off into a limbo where time and identity were non-existent. I opened my mouth and listened in astonishment to my story about the documents and the talisman I had found in the underground shelter on Hashima Island. I tried to stop myself but I couldn’t.
I explained the blood down below. I told her that I had taken documents from the island that could back-up my story if need be.
Yori said nothing the entire time. She rocked me to and fro as if she was the mother and I the child. When I finished my story there was a long silence. I felt lightheaded. I had finally been able to confess it all. Yori didn’t react directly to my story, but told me in her turn about her boyfriend and how he was losing his mind and what he had done to the foreigner she had met just to go one better on his idol Mishima. By the time she had said what she had to say I had made a decision. But first I asked her if she thought that Reizo Shiga was crazy.
Her answer felt like a kick in the stomach: “He’s not crazy. It’s much worse than that... he’s just pretending to be.”
44
Hiroshima – the canal behind the Genbaku dome –
Takeda and Becht – March 14th 1995
Inspector Takeda and Beate Becht are sitting on a bench on the banks of the river Aioi near the place where Becht found the van. It’s humid. A stiff breeze heralds the typhoon season, which reaches its height in September. The air has pale yellow quality, shifting to ochre when thick clouds block out the sun. One moment the surface of the river is blinding, with flashes of light from every angle, the next it’s dark, grey and sombre.
Takeda isn’t the only one who slept badly. Beate Becht’s depression is worse than ever and it’s eating her up inside. She’s convinced that she lost the inspiration for her new photo book in a single night. All the doubts she had been fighting for years about her work joined forces and turned on her. She tries to concentrate on what Takeda is saying, attempts to imagine that the burly policeman sitting next to her on the bench has an interesting face, a face she’d like to photograph: it’s broad and patient with a hint of stubbornness, but also good-natured and could easily break into a smile if he would just drop the meaninglessly polite facade. There’s something comical about his red hair, something boyish, although he must be well past forty.
“It’s not a lot to go on,” says Takeda resignedly.
“It’s all I know, inspector.”
Takeda crosses his legs. She’s not sure why, but she can’t help thinking that he has an air of tragedy about him. He might just be frustrated because she had so little to say about the Japanese girl who appeared out of the blue when she was trying to help the Belgian. They were keeping him in an artificial coma until the effects of the Irukandji sting wore off. Or until its poison killed him.
“Are you sure, miss Becht?”
Becht thinks for a minute. “It all happened so quickly. I was confused.” She says nothing about the photos she took of the scene. She wants to, but she’s afraid Takeda will confiscate them.
Takeda stays where he is, apparently calm. That morning, when he asked the sergeant on duty to check the shift roster, he noticed that commissioner Takamatsu had written something in the margins: “results expected with the appropriate speed”.
“I’m not used to this sort of situation,” Becht sighs.
“Of course, I understand,” says Takeda. “Your father was a renowned photographer, wasn’t he? Just like yourself if I’m not mistaken.”
She smiles, but he still has the impression that his compliment was unwelcome. “You’ve checked me out,” she says, half sarcastic. He thinks her English is funny. Her black ponytail is a bit shapeless. Intentional or accidental? It fits the perky look. There’s something delicate and fragile about her, Takeda thinks, but he figures it’s probably pretence.
“Oh well,” he says. “Let’s put it this way, Miss Becht: I’ve been in this business quite some time.” He doesn’t mention the piece he read about her and her visit to Hiroshima that morning in Yomiuri Shimbun, or that it raised his eyebrows. As a source of news, Yomiuri Shimbun isn’t known for accuracy, but the way it described Beate Becht, her background and life, has left him non-committal about her, especially since her testimony of the events of last night were so confused and vague. He senses that he is not in the moment, in the now. He keeps asking himself what he will do if the commissioner were to accuse him of incompetence and have him demoted. Would that be the moment to go public with his theory about the bank raid? With the present economic climate, getting the sack would be a disaster. Security guards get paid half his present salary, and a job in security would be his only option.
“My work is completely different from my father’s,” she says, her sarcasm not far from the surface. “His photos will still have a story to tell in a hundred years time. Mine are mirages, inspector. They capture the perfume of the hour and, as we all know, perfume evaporates.”
“You’re too modest, Miss Becht.”
Tomio Shiga, Tomio Shiga. The name of the Dai-Ichi-Kangyo Bank ceo who died in the raid is buzzing around Takeda’s head like a restless wasp. Japanese people have secrets. It’s second nature to them, or as his mother used to say: it’s in their gut. She was talking about the unseen things that go on in this country that make discretion second nature to its people. Her favourite expression was: “This country has a problem.” Another expression creeps into Takeda’s mind: the hounds of Yomi are on the hunt. It comes from the world of the afterlife, with its six Buddhist hells and their demons, heroes and angels, but he’s not sure what made him think of it. He considers himself an atheist.
“Let’s go to the place where you saw the van,” says Takeda when the silence gets uncomfortable. They walk along the riverbank. Beate seems stiff, tense. She has a camera, an Agfa ActionCam Minolta, in her shoulder bag. She wants to ask the inspector for permission to take his picture; doesn’t dare. She points awkwardly to the place where the van had stood. The forensic team Takeda managed to put together at very short notice found tyre tracks, a cigarette butt and a puddle of water. Takeda had dipped his finger in it and tasted it. Seawater. The Irukandji is a saltwater jellyfish. The inspector’s German companion is pacing up and down, short steps, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.
“Have you been able to identify the young man?” Beate asks, looking around, at a loss.
“He had no papers on him, in fact he had nothing. We’re presuming everything was stolen. My colleagues are checking the hotels at this very moment with a description. It’s time-consuming.”
The photographer focuses her attention: “Wait a minute. I think he said something about being new in the city, just arrived. But I can’t be sure. He was slumped against the van with his arms clutching his belly. We spoke English, but the girl was rattling on in Japanese. I was excited and nervous. Then he suddenly got worse and I couldn’t ask him anymore questions.”
“Try to picture the van. Was there anything unusual about it?”
Beate smiles at the policeman’s old-fashioned English. “You’re a photographer,” the inspector continues, almost apologetically. “Aren’t you supposed to be observant, to see things others might miss?”
“But I did forget something,” says the German slightly taken aback. “There was a painting on the side of the van. I remember looking at it before the young man started to shout, a red demon ... you know... a young girl... from behind.”
“Taking her, you mean?” says the inspector
“Yes.”
“Was there anything about the demon that drew your attention?”
“He was ugly.” Beate laughs nervously.
“It might help if you close your eyes.”
Beate Becht does what he asks although she doesn’t believe in such gimmicks. But to her surprise it works. “His hair was wild and he had long nails... and horns.”
“An Oni. They’re pretty common in manga comics. Young people read them a lot, they’re popular all over Japan. We even have study mangas and philosophical mangas. We like drawings. And photos.”
Beate wonders why he’s so talkative all of a sudden. Was his last remark a hidden compliment? “Sorry, that’s it I’m afraid.”
“When I saw your name on the incident report I bought one of your books.”
“Am I so well-known in Japan? You flatter me.”
“Your work is extraordinary. Gothic... isn’t that what they call it in English?”
Beate Becht nods. Inspector Takeda can’t help himself: he pictures his sturdy body on top of her boyish frame in a situation more violent than erotic. Takeda is aware that the events of the last few days, and the deceptively light but significant internal pressure he has experienced all his life because of his origins, have set something in motion over which he has little control. He knows he has a certain sort of sensitivity that is compensated for by physical urges that usually help him get his feet back on the ground. But he’s noticed of late that his urges tend to derail him more than heal him.
He thinks about his wife. Suddenly, without knowing why, he feels pity for her, and her lonely life.
“My thoughts are jumping all over the place like frogs,” he says. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “And their croaking is enough to drive a man crazy.”
Beate scowls and begins to laugh. She visibly relaxes. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’re a bit of a blabbermouth compared to the average Japanese man.”
Takeda explains in brief that he is mixed race. Two men appear behind them on the riverbank, walking and talking loudly. They’re foreigners. Takeda sizes them up as they approach. Iranians, he figures. A fair amount of friction has been reported in recent months between the Japanese and labourers from Peru, the Philippines, Iran, Malaysia, and Bangladesh. All down to the crisis. The men appear to be keeping an eye on them and Takeda doesn’t like their furtive behaviour. Takeda senses the air around him contract and interrupts his story. “Wait a minute,” says Beate at that very instant. “I remember something else, inspector. The demon had a tattoo. Rough dots. It looked as if nails had been pressed into his wrist.”
The inspector’s face brightens up. “The sign of the Shinjinrui, young layabouts, outcasts.”
He’s distracted by Beate’s remark. In the meantime the Iranians are almost on top of them. They pull knives and run towards them. Takeda isn’t armed. Japanese police functionaries don’t usually carry a service weapon. Takeda steps in front of Beate, protecting her with his substantial frame. The first of the Iranians aims below the belt, but Takeda beats him to it with a boot to the testicles. The man wheezes, drops his knife and grabs his crotch. For a brief moment he’s an obstacle to the other man, smaller, bearded, turning circles in the air like a typical knife fighter trying to prevent his opponent from grabbing his weapon. Takeda’s next move is unexpected: he jumps at the first attacker bent double from the pain and pushes him with all his might in the direction of the man with the knife. The two bodies collide, the knife fighter goes down and his companion wheezes once again. The smaller, bearded man clambers to his feet and runs off. The taller of the attackers remains on the ground, his companion’s knife wedged in his liver. He shivers, arches his back, then collapses in convulsions onto the pavement.
Takeda looks at Beate Becht. He expects to see her in a state of terror but instead he’s blinded by a flash from her camera.
45
Hiroshima – the Suicide Club squat –
Kabe-cho – Mitsuko and Yori – March 14th 1995
I wake with a start in Yori’s arms. Quiet as a mouse, I try not to wake her. She smells of something sticky sweet; perhaps it’s her perpetual chewing gum. A memory of Mayumi flashed past me in my sleep and made me tense and nervous. Try as I might, nothing is going to bring back whatever was important about that snippet of my dream. All I can remember was that my father appeared at the end and told me the precise ins and outs of it all, but I was as nervous as a deer at a pool of water when it senses a predator glaring at it from the bushes and I didn’t understand a word of what he said. Then death appeared, his massive weightiness a calming presence. I’m still a little groggy, not quite awake. I listen to Yori’s breath. When her eyes are open there’s always something vicious about her, like a cat in the wild, but asleep her face is serene, innocent.
She sighs in her sleep and, as if that’s a sign, a shiver runs through me. I look over my shoulder.
A few feet away, crouched like an animal, Reizo, staring at us, contempt written all over his face. His presence is more irritating than dangerous.
“It’s normal for women to nurse one another when they feel bad. It’s in their nature,” he says. His voice is airy, almost a purr, barely a whisper. I search for an appropriate answer, but he touches his lips with his finger and winks. Yori mumbles something in her sleep and her left foot kicks something invisible. I get up, still careful not to wake her, and follow Reizo into the other room. I stand upright, my stomach tense. He walks through the common area – it’s empty – and into the next room, which the Suicide Club use for storage. The things they collect on their forays through the city piled up on the floor right and left. There isn’t much room. We’re standing close. I take advantage of the fact that I’m a good six inches taller than he is by looking down at him ostentatiously. He doesn’t seem afraid, although he now knows how strong I am.
“I want to write about you,” he says as if he’s making me a business offer. “My novel needs someone like you.”
I’m on my gua
rd, think back to what Yori told me about his “literary experiment”, although her story about the poisonous jellyfish was farfetched and hard to believe, like many of her fantasies. I decide to play the game, for the time being. Reizo smiles disarmingly. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Originality is the most important thing.”
“I don’t possess originality. My existence is dull.”
“Tell me your life story?” From his mouth, it is a mixture of a demand and a question. I don’t know why, but behind the bravura, the cunning, the chilling cruelty, I can see a twisted mechanism, a spider’s web of pain, ambition and frustration, a child that’s lived for years with its head stuck inside an instrument of torture, leaving it disfigured.
I recognise myself in him. We are equals. The thought cuts into me like a knife.
I nod.
“But not now,” I say. “I’ve forgotten my past and need to find it again. Later.” My voice sounds hoarse and fake, but he’s so elated by my response he grabs me with both arms and beams at me: “Isn’t that the same as everyone else, except those dimwits outside? Forgetting your past is a sign of exceptional intelligence!”
He glances to his left and his right as if expecting applause from some invisible public dazzled by his performance. A glint of artifice in his eyes disturbs me for a second but quickly passes. I realise it was clumsy of me to throw in the word “later” just to win time. I also realise I’ve decided to leave the Suicide Club, but I don’t want him to harm Yori.
He looks me in the eyes and says: “Your hair is so beautiful. Like the tresses they use to make Noh masks.”
His right hand reaches up, caresses my hair. The tips of his fingers pause for an instant on my neck.
46
Hiroshima – the Righa Royal Hotel –
Beate Becht and Bruno Günder – March 14th 1995
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